The Four Graces (6 page)

It was Sunday. The day had been wet and the evening was dark with thunder clouds, so they were obliged to have lights in the church for evensong. It was not yet “blackout time” so it did not matter. Tilly was playing the organ, and the congregation was singing “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” which was the favorite hymn of Edward VII—and also of Tilly Grace. It was sad, of course, thought Tilly as she played the last few bars very softly, but all the best hymns were sad…

The music died away and Mr. Element, the verger, who was of an economical turn of mind, extinguished all the lights except the light in the pulpit where Mr. Grace was standing. The church was very dim now, and very still. The faces of the people shone white, as though with an inward rather than a reflected light. A band of ruby light from the west window caught old Jos Barefoot and turned his wizened little face into the face of a demon. Amber radiance haloed the head of Cynthia Bouse who served in the bar at the Whistling Man. Addie had come home for the weekend so there were three Graces in the Vicarage pew—and William Single, of course—and behind them, a little to the left near the pillar, sat Roderick Herd. Here again! said Tilly to herself, looking at him. He was here, in Chevis Green, much too often in Tilly's opinion.

Mr. Grace was talking about gardens; he liked to talk about simple things on Sunday evenings, about fields and trees and the homes of his people, and his people liked it, too, for they were realistic and could understand things of the spirit so much better if these were related to the things they could see. “England has been called a garden,” said Mr. Grace. “But gardens don't grow by themselves without being tended. This country we love so much didn't grow by itself to beauty. Geology played its part by providing suitable soil, and our climate provided the necessary moisture, but it was our ancestors who made the England we know. About two hundred years ago people became land-conscious. Landowners improved their estates, farmers enclosed their fields and planted woods and coppices. Roads were made and beautified and villages were remodeled. We talk of town planning today as if it were a new thing, but our ancestors planned the countryside; they loved beauty, they understood the art of landscape, they planted trees and opened vistas and changed the face of the land. These people made their improvements with two objects in mind, beauty and utility; not incompatible objects (as is sometimes thought) but married and existing together in unity. These people planned for future generations—for us—so it is our duty to look ahead and to plan for our children's children. The Englishman's natural taste for beauty in landscape is not dead, it is alive today in his passion for gardens; every cottager loves his garden and likes to see it full of bright flowers…but perhaps the best time of all in a garden is the planning time, when the gardener sees it bare and empty and plans the arrangement of his flowers, for it is then he is using his imagination and looking forward to the summer flowering.”

Mr. Grace leaned upon the edge of his pulpit and continued in a lower voice, an intimate, conversational tone. “But it wouldn't be much good for a man to plan his garden, to say to himself, ‘It would be nice to have hollyhocks in that corner, and lupins in front, and a trellis with sweet peas over there…and it would be a good idea to plant stock near the sitting room window so that we can smell their sweetness on a summer evening.'
No
, he's got to sow his seeds and water them. He's got to keep the beds weeded and free from slugs. Life is like that, too. We need faith—just as a gardener needs faith when he plans his garden and sows his seeds—and we need work. We can all do our part to make our little patch in the garden of life gay with flowers. Let's plant happiness in our little patch; it has such a sweet smell on a summer evening. Yes, but how can I plant it, you'll say. The best way to plant happiness is to do at least one thing every day to make one person happier, and to do it for God. That shouldn't be difficult. We can all do that. Happiness grows best that way, and it's a plant that seeds itself in the right kind of soil. We shall find it growing in our own hearts if we sow it freely—growing and flowering not only in the summer, but all through the year…”

Mr. Grace had chosen a very simple hymn to close the service. Hymn no. 573. “All Things Bright and Beautiful.” Everybody knew it so everybody sang. Tilly felt the comradeship, the “oneness” of the little congregation. She was moved, almost to tears. She did not want to meet anyone, nor talk, so she ran quickly down the little stair and home across the churchyard.

The dining room table was already laid for supper and there was nothing to do except to heat the coffee and the milk and take the vegetable pie out of the oven. It was a very large pie, savory and appetizing, for there would be six people to eat it tonight. Six at least—perhaps more—for Mr. Grace often asked somebody to come in and share the Vicarage supper on a Sunday evening. It was always vegetable pie (a dinner of herbs) so one need not worry about rationing. But perhaps he won't tonight, thought Tilly hopefully as she carried the tray into the dining room and gave the last-minute touches to the table. Her hopes were almost immediately dashed by the appearance in the garden of Liz and Roderick Herd. They were standing beside the lily pool, talking to each other, and their figures were reflected in the still pool with curiously faithful accuracy.

At this moment Sal came in. She said, “Oh, you've got everything! I must lay another place. Captain Herd is coming.”

“I know,” said Tilly, pointing to the window. “He's there—with Liz. Oh, Sal!”

“What's the matter?” asked Sal sharply.

It was so unlike Sal to be sharp that Tilly was taken aback.

“It's just—” she began. “I mean—he—frightens me rather.”

“How absurd!” exclaimed Sal.

There was no time for more. The others arrived and soon the whole party was seated around the table. At first Tilly was busy seeing that everyone was served, but once that was accomplished, she began to listen to the conversation.

“Yes, I know that, sir,” Roderick was saying. “But why don't the different churches amalgamate? From a layman's point of view, it's—well—muddling to have so many different religions all calling themselves Christians.”

“It may seem so,” agreed Mr. Grace. “And indeed many people hold that view.”

“You don't, sir?”

Mr. Grace hesitated. “I feel a universal religion would have to be so very cut and dried that one would lose all one's freedom of belief. Religion is a kind of scientific research and every faith and creed is a part of the truth. ‘No creed does more than shadow imperfectly forth some one side of the truth.' I can't remember who said that, but it was well said.”

“Father Hall in
John
Inglesant
,” said Sal in a low voice.

“I can always depend on Sal,” said Mr. Grace, smiling at his second daughter.

“Because I never went to school,” explained Sal. She was alarmed at the trend of the conversation (for it was impossible to foretell what Roderick would say next), but it was pretty certain that Addie would rise to that bait.

Addie did. “Oh, what rot!” exclaimed Addie. “You're always down on schools because you didn't go to one yourself. School taught Tilly and I all sorts of important things we couldn't have learned at home.”

“What a pity it didn't teach you grammar,” said Sal, smiling.

“We
did
learn grammar—parsing and all that,” declared Addie indignantly. “I must say none of us were very keen on parsing. What use is it?”

“Apparently none,” said Mr. Grace dryly.

William laughed.

“I suppose it's a funny joke, but I didn't see it,” said Tilly with regret.

“Sal only meant she had more time for reading,” observed Liz. “And of course that's true. I think it depends what sort of person you are whether school is the right thing for you. I was terribly happy at Hill House School.”

“I wasn't,” said Tilly, with a sigh.

Roderick had not seen the joke either. He returned to the attack. He was evidently of a persistent nature.

“But, sir,” said Roderick. “If every creed is part of the truth, why not put them all together and make a whole truth?”

“Who could do that?” asked Mr. Grace, smiling at him. “Who could make a path broad enough and narrow enough for every man who calls himself a Christian?”

Addie was talking to Liz, who was sitting next her. “It doesn't suit me,” she was saying earnestly. “Some girls look their best in uniform but not me. I
must
have another frock—honestly—something decent to wear. So I thought perhaps if you could spare a few coupons—I mean you can't want many clothes
here
. You wear breeches most of the time, don't you?”

“I'll see,” said Liz vaguely.

Tilly was talking to William—they all called him William now—she was saying: “If you really like sardine sandwiches that's too easy. We've got lots of tinned sardines in the store cupboard because we laid in a stock of them when it said on the wireless that everyone was to lay in a store of food in case of invasion…and then, of course, it changed its mind and said people who stored food were food hoarders and ought to be shot, but by that time the deed was done.”

“You weren't shot,” said William.

“Nobody knew,” replied Tilly, dimpling.

Supper was over now and the party was breaking up. Roderick was saying good-bye for he had to be back in camp at nine o'clock.

“I'll wash the dishes,” said Sal.

“It's Tilly and me tonight,” declared Liz, gathering the dishes onto her tray. “Come on, Tilly—our turn.”

Tilly was nothing loath, for it was fun washing up with Liz. She did it, as she did everything, with tremendous gusto; she flung herself into the job with zest, clearing the table, piling the dishes in the sink, turning on the taps full cock so that the water gushed out and the steam rose and enveloped her.

“Ha-ha!” she cried, rolling up her sleeves and plunging her arms into the sink. “Ha-ha! I love hot water. It's one of the pleasures of life!”

Everything in life was a pleasure to Liz—hot water, cold water, sunshine, even rain—she loved everything. She was like a goddess, a Brunhilde, muscular, vital, energizing. Her hair glittered like spun gold under the harsh light that hung, unshaded, over the scullery sink…but the clean dishes had begun to pile up on the draining board, and Tilly was obliged to take her eyes off Brunhilde and get on with her job.

Addie was not a good correspondent. She wrote only when she wished to inform her family of an important fact, or to warn them that she was coming on leave and must be met at the station, so it was with some surprise that Tilly received Addie's letter from the postman and took it into the kitchen where she was peeling potatoes. It can't be leave again, thought Tilly as she slit the letter open with the potato peeler and ran her eyes hastily down the closely written page. The letter didn't seem to be very interesting and, as usual, was liberally scattered with the pronoun “I.” Sal had once remarked that it was a pity Addie used such a very ornate letter to denote herself. The ornate letter drew one's attention to the extraordinary number of times it appeared in her correspondence…and yet, how could she help it? wondered Tilly. How can you help using “I” when you're writing about yourself?

“Letters?” asked Sal, coming into the kitchen.

“One from Addie,” replied Tilly. “‘I's' all over the place as usual.”

“Eyes all over the places?” inquired Sal, with mild surprise.

“Here, take it,” said Tilly. “My hands are all wet.”

Sal took it. “Oh, I see what you mean!” she said.

“Tell me what she wants.”

“I can tell you that before I read it. She wants clothes coupons, of course. She screwed some out of Liz when she was here, and she's got most of Father's already. I had to use some of mine to buy him a new shirt.”

“I might let her have four,” said Tilly thoughtfully, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, which was the only dry part of it.

Sal was reading the letter and now she began to expound its contents. “Addie is busy,” announced Sal. “Addie was kept late at the office making out returns. There's a new girl in the office and Addie doesn't like her. Addie met Aunt Rona in Debenham's buying a smart hat—”

“Who is Aunt Rona?” asked Tilly.

“Aunt Rona…” said Sal thoughtfully. “Yes, the name seems to ring a bell. Aunt Rona…Let me see. A woman with dark hair and a big nose. Why do I think of her like that?”

“Because that's what she's like, I suppose,” suggested Tilly sensibly.

“And a loud voice,” continued Sal. “Ugly but smart.”

“Where did you see her, Sal?”

“Where
could
I have seen her?”

“D'you know who she is?” asked Tilly, dropping the potatoes into the pan.

“I believe I do,” said Sal, delving into her memory. “I have a feeling she's mother's brother's widow, and after Uncle Jack died she married someone else. It's ages ago, of course. You would be too young to remember…Yes, I'm almost sure that's who she is. Don't ask me how Addie managed to get to know her,” added Sal, and she seized the two pails of hen food and was gone.

Mr. Grace, when tackled upon the subject, could do little but corroborate the facts already known. “Very dressy,” he said. “Rona spent a great deal of money on her clothes, but I must admit they became her. I haven't seen poor Rona for at least twelve years.”

“Poor Rona?” asked Tilly.

“Your Uncle Jack died,” explained Mr. Grace.

“But she married someone else. Who did she marry, Father?”

“Mapleton was his name. He died, too, some time ago. I remember seeing his death in
The
Times
.”

Addie's next letter was full of Aunt Rona. Aunt Rona had asked Addie to lunch at her flat. Aunt Rona had called at the office, looking terribly smart. Aunt Rona had taken Addie to see a play, introduced Addie to her hairdresser, and bought her a new hat.

The others were amused at this sudden infatuation, but Sal was not. Sal had delved more deeply into her memory and discovered bits and pieces of Aunt Rona, which, put together, made an unpleasant sort of picture. A picture that was all the more disturbing because it was so vague. She had a curious feeling of unease when Aunt Rona's name was mentioned.

This being so, Sal was not really surprised when one fine morning the station taxi (from Wandlebury, of course) drew up at the Vicarage and deposited Aunt Rona on the doorstep.

“Aunt Rona has come!” cried Sal, putting her head around the kitchen door.

“Aunt Rona!” exclaimed Tilly in amazement.

“Has come,” said Sal, and with that she smoothed her hair with both hands, tucked her pullover neatly into her waistband, and sallied forth to meet the guest.

Aunt Rona was standing on the step beside her extremely handsome pigskin suitcase. She was saying in a loud firm voice, “I have been here before, my man, and the fare is seven and sixpence.” Then she turned and saw Sal and held out both hands. “Ah, Sarah!” she exclaimed. “It
is
Sarah, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Sal, taking her hands and shaking them, and hoping that Aunt Rona would not expect to be kissed.

“We know each other, don't we?” said Aunt Rona gaily.

“Yes,” said Sal.

Aunt Rona
was
ugly. She was very dark, with a big mouth, full of very white teeth; her eyes were large and deeply set; her nose was unusually prominent, but she knew how to dress, thought Sal, noticing the neat black coat and skirt, the crimson scarf and hat to match, the elegant patent leather shoes and fine silk stockings. Sal remembered now exactly when and where she had seen Aunt Rona.

“I have been bombed,” declared Aunt Rona. “I have had all my windows broken. You see before you a refugee. Yes, refugee—I had absolutely no idea where to go or what to do until dear little Adeline suggested Chevis Green.”

“I'm sure Father will be very pleased,” said Sal, trying to make her voice sound reasonably convincing.

“I shall pull my weight, of course,” said Aunt Rona, sailing into the hall and leaving Sal to follow with the pigskin suitcase. “I am no passenger, Sarah. It is wartime and we must all do our bit. Only the other day I was saying to Sir Teal Mallard—a very dear friend of mine—we must all do what we can to win this war. Where is your father, Sarah?”

“He's busy,” said Sal a trifle breathlessly, for the case was heavy. “We never disturb Father in the morning unless it's something important—” She hesitated and stopped, aware that this might have been put in a more felicitous way.

“Of course,” agreed Aunt Rona. “I used to stay with the Goslings. I daresay you know his books. Highly improper, of course, but most diverting. Egbert Gosling always shut himself up every morning from nine to one and nobody dared to go near him. On one occasion when the drawing room curtains caught on fire, poor Alice rushed into the study and Egbert threw the ink pot at her.”

“Like Luther,” said Sal, in a dazed voice. It was a foolish thing to say, but she had so much on her mind. She must find Tilly and arrange about food. Cheese and eggs for lunch—would that do, or would they have to open a tin of Spam? Why didn't Tilly come and help? Tilly was probably in the linen cupboard looking out sheets for Aunt Rona's bed—hemstitched sheets of course—and (Goodness! thought Sal) Aunt Rona must have the back room, because William couldn't possibly be turned out of the front room now that he had settled down with all his drawings and measurements. These disjointed ideas sped through Sal's mind as she led Aunt Rona into the drawing room and asked if she would like a cup of tea.

“I can wait until lunch,” replied Aunt Rona, looking around and selecting the most comfortable chair. “I don't want to be the least trouble to anyone. You mustn't look upon me as a guest, Sarah.”

“No,” said Sal doubtfully.

“Do you remember me?”

Sal nodded. “I met you in London with Mother.”

“You were very small,” said Aunt Rona, with the flash of white teeth that did duty for a smile. “But people
do
remember me. I have often been surprised to find that people remember me when I have no recollection of them.”

“Yes,” said Sal, unsurprised at the news.

“Of course this doesn't apply to you, Sarah,” continued Aunt Rona, gazing at her critically. “I shouldn't have known you in the street, but meeting you here it was obvious you were Sarah. You were always pale and thin.”

“Yes,” said Sal.

“I met you at Parkinson's Hotel,” said Aunt Rona. “It was when poor Jack was with me—we called at the hotel because he wanted to see your mother. You had been to the dentist that afternoon.”

“To the doctor,” said Sal.

“Of course. Your mother had brought you to London to see a specialist about your back.”

Sal wished Aunt Rona would talk of something else. It had been so frightful. The doctor had said she must lie perfectly flat on her back for six months…Mother had tried to be cheerful about it—both of them had tried to be cheerful.

“Poor Mary,” said Aunt Rona, with a sigh. “What an anxiety you were! What an expense!”

“Yes,” said Sal. “I must have been, I suppose.”

“Mary had a very unfortunate life—four daughters and no son.”

Sal was about to agree again, and then she changed her mind. Why should I? she thought. It isn't
her
business…how does
she
know Mother wanted a boy? Mother never said so to
her
, that's certain.

“You must let me do the flowers,” Aunt Rona was saying. “That shall be my job, Sarah. It's astonishing what a difference flowers can make to a room—even to a dull, shabby room—if they're really well arranged. One has to love flowers and understand them to get the best effect.”

“Yes,” said Sal. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I'll go and see about—about some things.”

Sal had said that Father must not be disturbed, but now she had changed her mind. She would have to tell Father that Aunt Rona was here; she must break it gently to him so that he might get used to the idea before lunchtime. With this end in view she opened the study door and went in. He was writing.

“It's Aunt Rona,” said Sal in a low voice. “She's had all her windows broken.”

“Poor soul!” said Mr. Grace vaguely, without looking up.

“Father—”

“I'm busy, Sal. We'll talk about it at lunch. She isn't seriously injured, is she?”

“She isn't injured at all.”

“I thought you said she had broken something.”

“Her windows,” said Sal urgently.

Mr. Grace looked at Sal over his spectacles. “She must have them mended,” he said.

“She can't, Father. Everyone's windows are broken. There isn't enough glass—”

“Not everyone's,” interrupted Mr. Grace, glancing at his own.

“In London, Father.”

“Yes, yes. But I'm not a glazier. What can I do about it? Really, Sal—”

“Addie told her to come here.”

“Here!”
exclaimed Mr. Grace. “No, no. That would never do. Rona was always a trifle—er—difficult. Even Mary found her a little—er—difficult, and Mary was extraordinarily easy herself. So you see—”

“Yes, Father, but—”

“No,” said Mr. Grace with unusual vigor. “No, Sal. The desire to have her here does great credit to your heart, but you don't quite understand.”

“She is here,” said Sal.

“She is here!” cried Mr. Grace in—yes, in
alarm
, and he half rose from his chair and looked toward the windows as if (Sal thought afterward, though at the time she was too distracted to formulate the idea) he actually contemplated escape in that direction.

“It's all right,” declared Sal, assuming the role of comforter. “We'll look after her—Tilly and I—and Liz of course. You needn't bother about her at all.”

“But Sal—”

“But, Father, how
can
we refuse to have her? She's brought her suitcase.”

“A big one?” asked Mr. Grace, speaking in a whisper and glancing at the door.

“Not
very
,” replied Sal unconvincingly.

***

Tilly was in the back bedroom flicking about with a duster in a desultory way. It was obvious that Tilly was feeling a bit ruffled. She would be more ruffled, thought Sal, when she had had the opportunity to converse with Aunt Rona.

“Have you told Father?” asked Tilly, flicking the mirror contemptuously.

“Poor Father,” said Sal. “He isn't at all pleased. I believe he would have liked to say damn.”

“Liz will say it for him when she gets home. It's perfectly frightful
cheek
. That's what it is. Why should we have her? She isn't even related to us.”

“Because she hasn't anywhere else to go.”

A silence ensued, a very lugubrious silence. It was broken by the entrance of Aunt Rona.

“Ah, here you are!” she exclaimed. “I wondered where you had gotten to.”

“This is Tilly,” said Sal, introducing them.

Aunt Rona advanced upon Tilly and kissed her in a pecking manner on the cheek. “There,” she said. “Now I know you all—except Elizabeth, of course.”

“Yes,” said Sal. “Yes, you'll see Liz at teatime.”

Aunt Rona looked around. “This is a very small room,” she said. “I should prefer the front bedroom. I looked in as I passed and saw some—er—garments there, lying about. A friend of your father's, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Sal, nodding.

“He won't mind moving in here,” said Aunt Rona cheerfully.

“We can't move him,” said Tilly, opening her mouth for the first time.

“No,” said Sal, backing her up. “He uses the table for his work. It would be too cramped to bring the table in here. No, I'm afraid we can't ask Mr. Single to move.”

“So perhaps you'd rather not stay,” mumbled Tilly, her face very red with embarrassment.

Sal looked at Tilly in amazement (it
did
seem odd that Tilly, the shy one of the family, had managed to utter these words, but, like many shy people, Tilly sometimes burst forth with startling utterances, astonishing herself no less than her friends).